Her: Burn In the Face Of Love
by spheeris1
Summary: AU :: Ashley POV :: Super-light angst, sex, bad behavior :: One-shot :: What is meant to be, shall be...


_Where you turned left, she took a right. And where you laid your head, she never slept. But you never would have noticed these mis-steps had you never noticed __**her**__._

_And you can't help but notice __**her**__, can you?_

//

Blame those wandering eyes. Blame the boring conversation you've heard a million times before. Blame the third glass of wine. Blame the sigh slipping past your lips.

Or just blame yourself, being that girl who just doesn't let go of something bad, but still looks out for something new.

Wouldn't be the first time and your girlfriend knows it. **If she cared, she'd fight for you.** But the fight is gone. This round always goes to you, all these rounds go to you...

"Ashley, did you hear that?"

"Hmm?"

"Caitland is opening at MoMa. We should go."

"Yea, we should."

But it is just white noise to you, because you are slightly drunk and you are really over this evening out and someone just shifted through the glass doors and your eyes are watching - like they tend to do - and you notice_** her**_.

_**Her**_: pink mouth that shines and soft looking hair of blonde, smiling at something another person says and swatting the arm of some man, long fingers brushing at the edge of the table... _**Her**_: loud laugh that cannot be contained, the flutter of eyelids against startling blue...

**God, you are staring... **You are drumming your fingers on the tabletop and your girlfriend taps your leg with her foot and you hate yourself for stopping... but you do stop, pressing the palm of your hand firmly down.

You don't stop looking, though.

"Ashley, let's go. I've got an early morning."

"Okay."

She has a light pressure upon the small of your back and the two of you weave in-and-out of the sea of people and Caitland is waving and you don't wave back and you get closer to _**her**_ table and - with practiced ease - you reach out...

...You slide a feather's touch along _**her**_ shoulder.

And you feel _**her**_ gaze all the way out the door.

//

"Is fate just another word for inevitable? Can you stop a derailed train or just be smart enough to get off the tracks? Is there any reason, in the entire world, why people meet and don't say good-bye when they should? Can anyone ever really go home again?"

You don't have answers. At least not the kind that these fine people are looking for. They are here to ponder and to pontificate. You are here because you saw _**her**_ picture in the window and you know what it is like to feel that kind of blue on your body now and you want the sensation to return.

Spencer Carlin. Or so the flyers say. You pick up _**her**_ book and thumb through the pages. You see the faces of college-bound girls and boys, arms up in comment, and you are glad for your trust fund all the same.

Spencer Carlin. No home-spun name. But then, beautiful people are never common. And you know Spencer Carlin is beautiful - it is along _**her**_ jaw, an innocence and a real joy, nothing fake on that skin... and you've almost forgotten what truth tastes like.

Your phone rings, some obnoxious tune, and it's the girlfriend and you still answer even as the discourse halts and _**her**_ gaze is on you like lightning.

"Hey... no, that's fine... yea, really... I'll get something from Chao's, mmm-hmm... No, I left it there. No, second drawer... second dra--right, yea... What? Oh. I'm at a bookstore."

You hang up then because people are filing out or trying to talk to Spencer Carlin.

You want to talk to_** her**_, too.

//

"Could you sign mine?"

"...Sure. You've read it?"

"No."

_**Her**_ smile is knowing and you wonder if she has you figured out.

"Who do I make it out to?"

"Ashley."

"Is that you?"

You nod and watch how nice your name looks coming off_** her **_pen, each stroke slow and determined.

Handing it back over, Spencer Carlin tilts her head to the side and an eyebrow is raised.

"There will be a quiz... so don't bull-shit me and say you read it when you didn't, okay?"

You chuckle and hold the book in both hands.

"Want to test me later tonight?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

But Spencer Carlin is already smiling at another person and chatting to them and you step back - bemused and curious and eager and aroused - and you open the book.

_**"Dear Ashley,**_

_**Read this book tonight.**_

_**Thanks,  
Spencer Carlin**_

//

_Is fate just another word for inevitable?_

You were always meant to be a cheater. And this is something you know. Even back in high school, with that boy who loved you so much, you still ran around on him and kissed a lot of other people. And you slept with some of them, too.

You were always meant to live in the city. No country roads or flat farmland ever called to you, beckoned you with simple charms. You were born and bred amongst the pavement, the cracked sidewalks, the dealers on the corner, the smell of exhaust and cigarette butts on the ground.

You were always meant to be a lost child. Or a rocker. Or in rehab. Or tossed out on your ass.

Still, you read her book and you think most of it is self-indulgent philosophy to the masses and you want to believe Spencer Carlin is doing it blindly - because _**her**_ face is one of more honesty than that...

Then again, you were always meant to be swayed by pretty faces.

And like Helen, all your ships are setting sail.

//

"Did you read it?"

_**Her**_ voice sort of coasts over you and your body is turning almost before your thoughts can keep up and Spencer Carlin is carrying a basket of beer and frozen pizza.

You have red wine only.

"Yes."

"What did you think?"

"Honestly?"

"Of course."

"Like something from a fortune cookie."

_**Her**_ grin is gorgeous and you picture it in the early light of the dawn and you shudder - Spencer Carlin catches it and allows it to pass.

"My husband said the same thing."

You catch that and you aren't sure how to let it pass.

But _**her**_ eyes cut right into you and_** her **_legs carry her beyond you... still, _**her**_ grin dissolves into a smirk and _**her**_ arm brushes against yours.

And you know that Spencer Carlin was meant for a few dangerous things, too.

//

_Where you picked up, she left off. And where you were opening up, she was closing down. But you never would have noticed these mis-steps had you never noticed __**her**__._

_And you can't help but notice __**her**__, can you?_

//

You run through it, after the fact, like you tend to do - one side of you exposed, the other side barely covered up and the window is open and it is the middle of the day and your girlfriend is two hours away and you hear the delicate click of the door shutting.

Spencer Carlin. Oh so easy to find _**her**_ name in the phone-book. Oh so easy to call _**her**_ up and say your name and remind_** her **_- remind _**her**_ of a smile, a comment, a quiz.

And at your door, five minutes to eleven, Spencer Carlin walks into your life.

"Want something to drink?"

"Sure. I'd like some water."

"Ice?"

But neither of you are moving. The glass stays empty. The freezer door stays shut.

And you watch - mesmerized - as _**her**_ body curls around the bar, as _**her**_ hips subtly swing toward you, as _**her**_ fingertips find you first... and you are captured.

It starts there: your hands move with their own mission, up under the top and onto the flesh, molding and carving repetitive shapes. And_** her **_lips cover you - neck to chin to mouth. Strands of _**her**_ hair mingling with your own and_** her **_teeth gently scrape over your tongue and whatever control you pretended to have just disappears.

It starts here: the heat of _**her**_ mouth pushing past the thin material of your t-shirt, sucking you in and you hiss and you claw at _**her**_ jeans. No longer hindered and you cup_** her **_ass and jerk_** her **_to you and _**her **_hips roll into you... once, twice... and you don't wait to be asked, you are inside of _**her**_ and Spencer Carlin rides your hand. Spencer Carlin rides you, buried deep, and clutches your shoulders and kisses you and you feel dizzy with the lack of air.

That's where it began and where it could have ended.

But some things, no matter how wrong, are always meant to be.

_Is fate just another word for inevitable?_

You are alone, sweat cooling on your skin, and you think to yourself...

...Yes...

//

END


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